


Powers and Might

by argyle4eva



Series: Being Sherlock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Supernatural” doesn't mean “invincible,” as Sherlock finds out the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had done it again: figured out everything in a blinding flash and gone haring off on his own to prove he was right, leaving both John and Scotland Yard trailing in his wake. John might have chalked it up to the inexperience of someone new to being a supernatural predator, hunter's instincts not yet under control (Sherlock had only been a vampire for a few years, after all), if he hadn't heard enough stories from Lestrade and others to know Sherlock had _always_ been that way, charging into danger alone without a second thought. It was how he'd ended up a vampire, in fact, which might have been a learning experience for a normal person but not for Sherlock.

They'd captured most of a gang of gun-runners; the only member still at large was the ringleader, who was, as Sherlock had deduced in a solitary lightning-cascade of genius, trying to salvage what resources he could before fleeing the country. John was riding with Lestrade as they raced to catch up with the consulting detective, the two of them having converged on the same point while tracking Sherlock. On the way, they'd managed to piece together between them what Sherlock had seen in an instant, and it hadn't been reassuring. The man Sherlock would be facing was cunning, ruthless and dangerous, with nothing left to lose.

They were out of the car, crossing to the office building containing the suite the gun-runners had been using as a front, when they heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of gunfire.

There could be little doubt Sherlock was involved, one way or another.

Everything narrowed down into a headlong rush into the building, fighting past the panicked late-afternoon workers fleeing the building. Lestrade and John led the way, Lestrade holding his identification overhead like a talisman, the sigil of the Queen's badge burning blue on the palm of his hand. Whether in response to the badge, the sigil, or pure herd instinct, people gave way, flowing to either side like water.

The elevator was dismissed out of hand; they were only going to the third floor, so they took the stairs. Once they were in the clear, John shouldered into the lead, partly from force of habit as the least-killable individual on hand, and partly because _Sherlock_ was up there. Bullets might not hurt a vampire, but . . . John took the stairs two, then three at a time, leaving Lestrade behind.

He skidded around the corner, absolutely convinced he'd find a bored-looking Sherlock waiting for them, probably standing over his unconscious quarry with a pistol dangling from one long forefinger as he swung it casually back and forth (John hated when he did that; Sherlock had _no_ respect for firearms). The image was so sharp and clear in John's head, it took him a moment to process reality when he saw it.

The ringleader was indeed unconscious, crumpled at the base of one wall as if he'd been thrown against it, amid the incongruous contents of a janitor's closet strewn about the hallway.

On the base of the facing wall lay an equally crumpled heap that was Sherlock. He was still breathing, but that was only made obvious by the long shaft of wood rammed into his chest that moved along with his ribcage.

John stumbled forward, with the horrible sense of being trapped in his own worst nightmare. His eyes, darting around the site, picked up details that turned into a story: a mop head lying on the floor, still attached to a portion of shattered wooden shaft; bullet holes, ranged along the corridor wall . . . Working in hyperdrive, John's brain reconstructed the scene.

 _Sherlock, closing in for the kill, metaphorical as it might be; the ringleader producing a gun; Sherlock laughing; shots fired -- having no effect; the ringleader's horrified realization of what he faced; a desperate rummage in the janitor's closet, followed by the ringleader stepping on the end of a wooden-handled mop, snapping off the shaft at a sharp, splintered angle, taking the remaining weapon and striking out with it; Sherlock, mid-charge, catching the blow but still grabbing hold of his human adversary and_ throwing _with all his inhuman strength; both men slowly slumping to the ground . . ._

Nightmares were supposed to happen in dark alleyways or foggy churchyards or distant deserts, not in ordinary English hallways bright with fluorescent lighting, but that's where this one was unfolding. John dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, taking in the spreading pool of dark garnet red soaking the carpet and Sherlock's pasty-white pallor, unnatural even for him. The scent of blood was thick in the air, for all that John's sense of smell was little sharper than an an ordinary human's at the moment.

The makeshift stake had missed Sherlock's heart, but not for lack of trying: it was properly angled, going in through the stomach and up under the ribs, probably with Sherlock's own weight helping drive it home. John wanted nothing more than to rip the hateful thing clean out of Sherlock's body and fling it far, far away, but the doctor in him knew better and the doctor was in charge right now. That piece of wood might be the only thing keeping Sherlock from bleeding out completely, which was death for anyone, vampire or not. John didn't even dare apply pressure to the wound without knowing what internal structures might be jammed up against a sharp edge, vulnerable to shifting.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, not necessarily a bad reaction for a vampire (they tended to shut down when badly injured, the better to heal themselves), but his pulse was even slower and weaker than it should have been. John swore horribly in the privacy of his head. Out loud, his physical voice was already intoning a sequence of dry, precise medical Latin ( _"Longinus miles lancea ponxit . . ."_ ), three spells so familiar he could say them all in a single breath, intended, respectively, to stop bleeding, ease pain, and soothe shock.

John felt the indescribable sense of something leaving his body and going into his patient's, even as golden light flared around his left hand -- his strong hand -- sure sign that the spells had worked, taking power from the reserves bound up in John's physician's oath. John wasn't entitled to much emergency energy these days, and those three spells drained his meager allotment completely in one go. But there were other resources, and John didn't hesitate to use them.

Sliding down Sherlock's body, he brought his head level with the mop handle protruding from his partner's torso, and called on a different sort of magic.

 _"Eorthe thee on bere ealle hira mihtum and magneum,"_ he whispered, closing his eyes in concentration and bringing his mouth close to Sherlock's body so his breath could blow the words directly onto the wound. _May the Earth bear you up with all her powers and might._

The incantation was neither Latin, nor modern. It was old beyond counted years, passed down by word of mouth to each new generation, one of the fragments of leechcraft, granny-magic and cunning-lore kept alive through the centuries because they _worked_ , even if modern medical authorities disapproved of them for being unpredictable and sometimes dangerous, drawing as they did on the life-force of the practitioner rather than the safe and sterile reservoirs of the oath.

John managed three repetitions before his head swam and he needed to sit upright to avoid passing out. Gasping for air, he was greeted by the infinitely welcome sight of Sherlock, awake and smiling at him, blue-grey eyes open in sleepy slits.

"That was _not_ MHRA approved," Sherlock murmured, sounding cheerful and slightly stoned from the effects of John's first anti-shock and painkilling charms.

John did his best to smile back. "You can sue me for clinical malpractice later," he said.

Sherlock huffed a soundless laugh, then winced. His eyes widened and a tiny frown line developed between his dark brows. "He got me with a _mop_ ," he said, sounding surprised and petulant at once.

"Yeah, he did," John said, checking Sherlock's pulse. "Idiot. I keep telling you 'supernatural' doesn't mean 'invincible,' and I should know."

Sherlock's pulse was stronger, but not strong enough. He needed a transfusion immediately. Fortunately, with his being a vampire, that bit was simpler than if he'd been a normal human.

Sherlock shivered, and his eyelids fluttered as they closed again. "I'm cold," he mumbled.

"I know," John said, keeping his voice calm, regardless of what was going on inside him. His body shielding the view from everyone else in the hallway (subliminally, he was aware of them all: Lestrade, Lestrade's people, the fallen ringleader, none of them important), he quickly hooked the forefinger of his left hand into a sharp claw and without hesitation ripped it down the inner surface of his right wrist.

It was a horrible parody of their first time together, and without any pre-prep it was going to hurt like hell, but John's hands were perfectly steady and his mind was clear as a sheet of white paper as he brought his bleeding wrist to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock inhaled, nostrils flaring, and when his eyes opened this time, they were black as the Pit. He struck like a snake, all survival instinct, fangs ripping into John's wrist. The pain was intense, but there was a trick John had learned in Afghanistan, a way of letting the things one couldn't afford to deal with – heat, discomfort, fear, grief – pass by without really experiencing them until later. John gritted his teeth and endured as Sherlock drank his fill.

Eventually, Sherlock's relentless demand eased, then stopped. Without warning or ceremony, his mouth went slack and his head fell back as he dropped into unconsciousness. A check of his pulse was encouraging. He wouldn't be able to heal completely until the stake was removed, and that would take surgery, but he would remain stable for now. John, dizzy, his vision fuzzing around the edges, breathed a sigh of relief and started paying attention of the rest of the world.

There were a lot more people in the hallway than there had been.

John turned his head unsteadily to see a waiting paramedic team. Lestrade must have called them in the interval. From the wide-eyed looks on their faces and their half-hovering, half-horrified body language, they were waiting to take Sherlock to hospital and they'd got an eyeful of the emergency transfusion in progress. The fallen ringleader was gone, probably already carted off by another team.

John cleared his throat. "Right. He's okay now, but for God's sake, don't jar that stake in his chest, you don't know what it's up against. And he needs a transfusion. A real one." He lurched to his feet, pulling his arm from Sherlock's loose grasp, and nearly blacked out. "He's a vampire," John added, dazed, as if anyone in the hallway might have the slightest doubt on that front. "I've tried to get him to wear a bracelet, but he won't, he's a stubborn bastard . . ."

Everything went red and gold and black, and John would have fallen, but there was a hand on his shoulder and another under his elbow, steadying him. When his vision cleared, he saw Sherlock, strapped to a board and on a stretcher, being wheeled through the elevator doors at speed by the paramedics. It was all John could do not to run after them, holding his left hand aloft, sigil blazing, demanding to ride in the ambulance, because he was a bloody _doctor_ , but the grip on his shoulder held firm.

"John," Lestrade's voice said in his ear. "Easy. They've got him. You're still bleeding."

Lestrade was so calm, so matter of fact, his words actually penetrated John's fogged brain; John looked down and saw the blood dripping from the fingers of his right hand, making coin-sized spots on the carpet. Vampire saliva was loaded with anticoagulants during feeding. Sherlock had lost consciousness before he was truly finished, and hadn't had the time to clean the wound properly at the end. That wouldn't do.

Wavering like a drunken man ( _shock, blood loss, and two rounds of spellcasting in quick succession,_ he self-diagnosed), John brought wrist wound to his mouth and fastened his lips over it, ignoring the pain as he began cleaning it with his tongue. The taste of his own blood mixed with Sherlock's saliva was familiar and comforting, even now, and John closed his eyes to savor it. Lestrade's hands dropped away, leaving John to it.

When his wrist wound had stopped bleeding, John moved on, drawing his tongue in broad strokes down his palm and ending by sucking his fingers fastidiously. It was pure instinct to remove every trace of blood, anything that might attract other predators.

With a sigh, John dropped his hand and opened his eyes. People who had been staring looked hurriedly away and became busy with other things. John wasn't so out of it that he couldn't read the shades of embarrassment and distaste in most of the body language on display, but couldn't bring himself to give a flying toss at the moment.

Lestrade was a short distance away, conferring with Donovan, who looked ill; John noticed she was keeping her eyes turned away from the massive bloodstain on the floor that marked where Sherlock had fallen. He wondered if that indicated disgust or empathy on her part.

Lestrade nodded with finality and turned back to John, striding in his direction. Of everyone in the room, his was the only body language that didn't show some sort of negative reaction. His expression was serious, even grim, but his eyes were clear when they met John's.

"Come on," Lestrade said, sounding tired, "everything's under control here. I'll give you a lift to the hospital."

John nodded. "Thanks," he said, with an effort. His mouth was dry, all of his joints seemed rusty and his head was still swimming. Moving without thought, he reached for the jacket pocket where he kept a small supply of individually-wrapped hard sweets, a precaution he'd started taking after a few spur-of-the-moment blood donations to Sherlock in the past. Never under these circumstances, though.

He pulled out a sweet and unwrapped it, popping it into his mouth as he followed Lestrade to the elevator. He crushed the sweet between his back teeth and swallowed without tasting it, then reached into his pocket for another. Each step he took was becoming steadier as his shapeshifter's constitution went to work. He was grateful for that. It meant he'd be nearly back to normal by the time Sherlock had recovered enough to go home.

Because Sherlock would recover. John clung to that, used the certainty to keep himself moving. It would be all right.

It _would._

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

John took a slow, deep breath and let it out on a count of eight. He was seated in a plastic chair that, usual cliches aside, was really fairly comfortable, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on the heels of his hands, waiting.

Waiting was what his world had narrowed down to, that and thinking, but the waiting was preferable by a tiny margin -- which said a lot, really.

He also had his senses stopped down, barely above human-normal levels, because he really wasn't up to dealing with the all-too-familiar hospital scents of blood, cancer, pain, fear and disinfectant, not to mention the sounds. Not tonight. Which was how Lestrade almost managed to surprise him; he only caught a whiff of someone familiar a half-second before he heard a voice speaking his name.

Blinking, John looked up and saw the DI, looking more rumpled and tired than usual, holding out a paper cup full of hospital tea. In his other hand, he held a cup for himself.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Thought I'd come and see how you were doing," he said.

"Thanks," John said, taking the tea, but with a question in his voice.

Lestrade shrugged and dropped into the chair next to John, sighing in genuine relief. "Given that you two called _me_ last time you got arrested, I figured you might need some looking after tonight." He took a sip of tea, and studied the blank wall opposite them before adding, "You have any family?"

"A sister," John confessed, wrapping his hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth if nothing else. He'd drunk a lot of tea, had a meal at the hospital canteen and consumed all the sweets in his pocket, working from the soldier's perspective that one should take sustenance whenever possible, just in case there wasn't an opportunity later. He was doing fairly well, nutritionally. "But we don't get on. I don't call her unless I have to." He took a sip of tea, out of reflex. No sugar. Bitter. Institutional. But it was sustenance, not to be wasted. "Mycroft's around here somewhere, though. Have you met Mycroft . . .?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Oh, yes," he said, the two words holding a world of sarcasm. "I've met Mycroft. Anyone who spends any time around Sherlock gets to meet Mycroft. Usually in a deserted parking garage or somewhere equally charming."

John snorted in appreciation. Not that John had any cause to be giving Mycroft grief, not tonight, when he was bending rules left and right and center in ways that would benefit John. "Sounds about right." He took another sip of tea.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked, after a moment's pause. John didn't need to ask whom he meant, despite the change in subject.

John sighed. "The operation went off without a hitch and they've been pumping blood into him nonstop. He's still unconscious. But that's not necessarily bad." Really, once the doctors had pulled the stake out of Sherlock's chest and sutured up the major damage, the best thing that could be done was leave his vampiric healing abilities to do their work. He'd either wake up good as new, or he wouldn't. "Now it's just waiting."

Lestrade nodded absently and drank tea.

"Thanks," John said, again, and this time he didn't mean for the tea. "You suffer through a lot for the sake of that 'good man' you expect to materialize someday."

That earned a sidelong smile. "Oh, there's a bit of self-interest involved," Lestrade said. "Along the lines of resource management."

"So you consider Sherlock a resource, rather than the thorn in your side?"

"Of course he's a resource. Bit of a loose cannon, but he gets _results_."

"Among other things," John said. "Are the results worth it?"

"Damn right they are," Lestrade said, with feeling. "It's a war out there, one we're never going to win, and I'll use any weapon I've got." He stopped and blinked, then gave John a wary look. "Sorry. Probably could have chosen a better metaphor, if I'd stopped to think about it."

John, taking another sip of tea, shook his head and swallowed. "S'okay." _Welcome back, Doctor Watson,_ a voice said in his memory. "It's . . . accurate, really." Lestrade looked relieved. John continued. "Just seems like Sherlock causes more trouble than anything, sometimes."

"He doesn't make the paperwork any easier, that's for certain," Lestrade said.

John laughed, the first real, heartfelt laugh he'd had in what felt like forever, even though it was probably only hours.

"But it's worth a few jiggered reports and pretend drugs busts and stolen IDs to have him working on my side." Lestrade paused. "That reminds me," he said, his voice going almost plaintive, "how _does_ he fake the sigil, when he's waving my identification around?"

John considered, but only for a second. Lestrade had earned the truth, by John's reckoning. "He's got a little piece of blue foil he palms. Very reflective, mylar I think . . . Anyway, if he flicks his wrist the right way when he's holding up the ID," John waved his hand in illustration, "it gives a flash."

"Blue foil?" Lestrade repeated in disbelief. "And people _buy_ that?"

"Yep. Helps that he's fast and sloppy about it. After all, he can't have anyone getting a good look at your photo, either."

"My God," Lestrade said, slumping back in his chair, stunned. "It's that simple. All this time I've thought he must be using some kind of spell."

"Sherlock doesn't like spells. He says they're unreliable. And unnecessary, since people see what they want to see, most of the time, rather than what's there. They don't _observe_." John couldn't help grinning as he imitated Sherlock's derision.

Lestrade shook his head. "Blue foil. Only Sherlock-bloody-Holmes would have the gall to think of that and the balls to pull it off." He rubbed a tired hand across his face and began to laugh.

John joined in, realizing what a relief it was to have someone he could talk to about Sherlock -- someone who _understood._

Lestrade leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees, mirroring John's pose. He shifted his tea to his left hand, and laid his right hand flat, palm-up, sighing. "Blue foil," he repeated, still sounding amused. As he spoke, sparks of blue light flared to life in his skin, grew and spread, outlining the crowned "ER" sigil written into his flesh and blood, symbol of his sworn oath as a member of Scotland Yard. He shook his head again, as if trying to believe anyone in their right minds wouldn't be able to tell the reality from the fake.

"I'm amazed at what you let us get away with, sometimes," John said, moved to more-than-usual honesty by the intimacy, the _weirdness_ of the moment. After all, this was the DI who knew, who _had_ to know, that the man sitting next to him was a werewolf illegally off his meds (who had, not-so-incidentally, killed at least one man recently while in wolf form), but Lestrade had never said word one. Didn't even seem _bothered_ by it. Hell, Lestrade would sometimes pull John off to the side at crime scenes, _sans_ Sherlock, and ask him if he had any "impressions" he'd like to share, meaning, _Did you smell anything useful?_ John, for his part, had willingly shared any information his supernatural senses had picked up, while being vague about his methods. The words "shapeshifter," "werewolf" or "lycanthropy" had never passed between them.

Lestrade snorted, then fell silent, looking down at the sigil burning blue in his hand. "There are two ways to approach police work." he said after a moment, amusement gone, "the letter and the spirit. Give me a choice and I'll take the spirit every time." When he finished, his gaze remained fixed on the sigil and there was a meditative quality to his silence.

John, uncertain what to say, didn't respond. When things were bad, he'd spent long hours alone summoning and contemplating the caduceus-sigil marking his own hand, but hadn't realized anyone else -- especially someone sworn to something completely different -- might do the same. It felt as if he was witnessing something intensely personal, but Lestrade didn't seem concerned.

"The minute I laid eyes on him," Lestrade continued, gazing at his sigil as if it held every answer he needed, "I could see people would remember Sherlock Holmes a hundred years from now. Greg Lestrade they'll forget, but Sherlock . . . I knew I'd been given a chance to make sure he was remembered for the right things. 'Course, that was _before_ , when he was still human -- now, they'll remember him because he'll still be there in the flesh, making whatever poor bastard has my job completely miserable." Lestrade chuckled.

John couldn't share the humor this time. "If he survives that long," he couldn't help saying.

"He will," Lestrade said, as if it were a done deal, as if he saw the future written in the blue traceries of his sigil. "He's got you, hasn't he?"

John winced and looked down at his own hands, laced between his knees. That was a direct hit. _He's got me, but for how long?_ He unlaced his fingers and studied the back of his own hand. It looked the same as it always did, square and capable; his face in the mirror looked the same each morning, careworn but not _old_ , framed by sandy-blond hair just starting to streak with grey. Only time would tell whether that sameness was permanent, or if Time would continue to make its usual changes.

If John had been ordinary, his relationship with Sherlock was at a point where it should start evolving into something different, something lasting. _Human servant_ was an outmoded term, but people still used it to indicate the symbiotic bond that could form between a mortal and a vampire, one that would defy time and keep a non-vampire as eternally young as their supernatural partner . . . for as long as the vampire's life lasted, anyway. Then it was everyone gone to ashes together. Bit of a one-way trip, that bond. John didn't mind. He'd long since decided that following Sherlock -- anywhere -- was his life's goal from here on out. What bothered him was that he'd never found a single account of a vampire having a _shapeshifter_ servant.

John couldn't imagine, through the entire run of human history, it had never been _tried_. Someone must have done. But they'd never bothered to record whether it worked or not. Shapeshifters were immune to so many things: death by any metal but silver, most diseases, a laundry list of poisons and injuries . . . would that physiology also resist a vampiric connection? A shapeshifter couldn't be _made_ a vampire, that much was known.

Would John wither and die of old age while Sherlock had barely started his own immortal life? Sherlock liked to play at being an emotionless sociopath, but that was bollocks and John wasn't the sort to engage in any false modesty over whether or not Sherlock cared about _him_. That was a given. But Sherlock also wasn't the sort to care easily, and he felt it more deeply than most when he finally did.

John didn't think he flattered himself by thinking that Sherlock wouldn't take his loss well. While there would be any number of suitable replacements around at any given time (John was quite sure there were better partners for Sherlock _now,_ for all John had somehow got lucky), it would be all too in-character for Sherlock to ignore them and go his solitary way, rather than risk further pain by letting someone else get close to him. And Sherlock on his own was a disaster waiting to happen.

 _I didn't even know when he got hurt. I was scared, but I didn't_ know.

 _Shouldn't I know?_

All this ran through John's head in a swift, well-worn stream, but Lestrade was still speaking. "He's got that mad brother of his, too, which means the whole bloody British government if you believe half of what Sherlock says. He's got me, whether he cares or not. And . . . the powers tend to look after those that serve 'em, as much as they can."

John pulled his thoughts back to the present. "Sherlock doesn't _serve_ anything," he said, turning to look at Lestrade, sensing an odd shift in the conversation while simultaneously realizing what a sad picture they must have made, two men sitting in an empty hospital corridor staring at their own hands.

Lestrade snorted, and shot John a look reminiscent of Sherlock's _you're an idiot_ expression. The sigil still shone in the palm of his hand; it lit his face oddly, from below and to the side, competing with the overhead fluorescents in strength. "We all serve something," Lestrade said. "Whether we like it or not."

 _Wait, when the hell did Lestrade turn into Obi-Wan Kenobi?_ John thought, completely thrown off his mental stride. "Vampires don't have souls. They can't take oaths," he said, his mouth following the weird twist in the conversation, even if his brain wasn't quite wrapping around it yet.

That was the accepted wisdom, anyway; vampires were incapable of taking any oath that required a soul's bond, which most major religions took to mean that they were, for all intents and purposes, mere animated bodies, as good as dead already.

"You don't seriously believe that, do you?" Lestrade asked with a derisive edge, sounding more like his usual self.

It was an unexpected question, a bizarre one, even, and John hadn't a clue how they'd got here from cups of tea and stolen IDs. Yet . . . it was John's experience that hospital corridors saw more contemplation of the infinite than any given church, so maybe hashing over the nature of immortal souls wasn't out of place after all.

John took a deep breath. That was another thing he'd been worrying over: the idea that someone as amazing and admirable and brightly-burning as Sherlock could just _go out_ like a snuffed candle, nothing left of him. John couldn't, wouldn't, let himself believe it.

"No," he said.

"Good," Lestrade said, approving. "Anyone who thinks that doesn't know the first thing about vampires. They can't bear a sigil, but this," he gestured with his blue-lit right hand, "is nothing. It's just the tip of the iceberg."

John's eyebrows went up at the contradiction. Lestrade's phrasing was perilously close to repudiation; at the very least it bordered on disrespect, the sort of thing that shattered oaths from the inside . . . but the mark on his flesh was burning with the brilliance of true belief.

"What's underwater, then?" he asked.

Lestrade grinned -- actually grinned. "The rest of the iceberg. The thing people really serve."

"What's your iceberg, then, if it isn't the Met?" John asked, partly as a challenge, partly . . . because he wanted to know.

"Justice," Lestrade said, with proud affection. "Not the easiest, but I've always been a glutton for punishment." His sigil flared into unbearable brightness, bright enough to cast its own shadows in the grim, beige hallway, drowning out the flickering fluorescent lights.

"That's what Sherlock serves, too? Is that what you're saying?" John asked, dazzled and wondering how loopy he still might be after the day's events. He _had_ lost a lot of blood.

"Oh, no," Lestrade said. "Sherlock serves the truth. Poor bastard. That's even _worse._ "

"Aren't they the same?" John asked, without thinking.

Lestrade sighed. "No," he admitted, and the blue light finally dimmed. "Not always. It's good when they are, though."

John felt his ears go red. _Naive,_ he told himself, _you know better._

"Where is all this _coming_ from?" he asked out loud, sounding much the same as Lestrade had when he'd asked how Sherlock faked sigils. He took a deep, suspicious draught of air, checking, but Lestrade's scent remained, as always, resolutely human-normal. He hadn't suddenly morphed into something supernatural and cryptic.

Lestrade snorted, amused rather than offended. His half-smile held a wicked edge. "I should tell you about _my_ family sometime. But not tonight. It's a long story, and it goes better over a couple of pints. Besides which, speaking of family . . ." He closed his fist abruptly, cutting off the blue light of his sigil. A half-second later, Mycroft strode around the corner.

John's senses flinched back to even nearer human baseline. Mycroft's scent was profoundly disturbing to him, because mixed through all the complex layers of superficial information (aftershave, soap, cologne) and the basic notes (human, male, healthy), there was a faint refrain that mirrored Sherlock's scent in the way of all close blood relatives. When he'd first met Mycroft, John hadn't known Sherlock well enough or long enough to recognize it, but now he could hardly notice anything _else_. It was creepy as hell, sensing a connection between one's lover and the most terrifying individual one had ever met, especially through such an intimate medium.

Mycroft never hesitated, even slightly, when he spotted the two of them. John, still reeling spiritually and emotionally, caught that much, just before the familiar voice said in a decent approximation of warmth, "Detective Inspector -- this _is_ a surprise."

Lestrade rose to his feet, every bit as poised as Mycroft. "No it isn't," he corrected with mild good humor. "Not unless your surveillance people are as bad at reporting in as they are at staying hidden."

Just for a fraction of a second, Mycroft looked put out, and John bit his lower lip. _He_ hadn't spotted any of Mycroft's people, but then he hadn't really been looking. And, in all fairness, he was starting to suspect that Lestrade might see more than the average person.

"Is he awake?" John asked out loud, and everything else dropped away. He rose to his feet, trying not to look too much like a hopeful canid waiting for news of its master.

"So I'm informed," Mycroft said, which was enough for John to push past him on the way to the private room Mycroft had arranged, the one that John had access to despite not being an official family member.

Opening the door was enough to break John's heart all over again: that still lump under the hospital sheets, hooked up to a mass of monitors, shouldn't be Sherlock, the most dynamic person on the face of the Earth.

All the same, though, there was something just a bit different this time, compared to John's first, terrible viewing of Sherlock's unconscious, post-operative self, before the nurse had thrown _everyone_ out of the room, including Mycroft. John's head came up and he inhaled, nostrils expanding instinctively, senses sharpening to the limits his human form could contain. His eager feet carried him to Sherlock's bedside, and to his unutterable relief, pale eyes slitted open to look at him. He curled his hand around long, white fingers that were cold, but not _too_ cold, and which curled slightly back.

"John," Sherlock said, and everything John had considered saying, every opening line he'd been rehearsing silently before Lestrade had arrived, went straight out the metaphorical window. All that mattered was Sherlock, awake and alive. John inhaled deeply, breathing in autumn and iron and _home_ , and said the first thing that popped into his head.

"You smell like other people's blood." The words carried everything he felt, from, _You idiot, what the hell were you thinking?_ to _I love you,_ compressed and encoded.

Sherlock, obviously tired and not functioning at 100%, still managed a faint huff of amusement. "Not by choice," he said. "We can fix that later."

John heard the silent, _I thought I knew what I was doing,_ and _I'm sorry_ and the hundred other things, and smiled.

A faint rustle of fabric drew both John's and Sherlock's attention to the door of the room, where Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella in a species of parade rest, looking disgusted in the most genteel way possible. Lestrade, next to him, was watching everyone else (Mycroft included) with sparkling eyes and a hand over his mouth.

Lestrade was the first to speak, dropping his hand and revealing, yes, a smile. "Well," he said. "I think I've seen enough. You two can take it from here. You've got my _unlisted_ number if you need anything." Sherlock had, indeed, acquired that mobile number somewhere, somehow. He added a dry, polite "Morning," to Mycroft (since it was, by this point, past "late" and on to "early"), accompanied by the hint of a bow, before showing himself out.

John watched him, go, the London DI with a surprising streak of Jedi knight hiding at his core, then glanced at the remaining man in the doorway of the room: the icy, calculating brain behind the British government. Both of them here, like himself, for Sherlock Holmes' sake. And that didn't take into account those who weren't here, but still cared -- Mrs. H and Angelo and the others like them, the friends Sherlock didn't seem to know he had. Powers or no powers, it wasn't a bad tally.

"Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" John asked, returning his affectionately-exasperated attention to Sherlock.

"I think," Sherlock said, with a faint half-smile, studying John's face in much the way Lestrade had studied his sigil back in the hallway, reading the depths as well as the surface, "I might."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Author's notes: I had way too much fun researching the healing incantations John uses in this chapter. The first is a spell to stop bleeding, found[here](http://www.jesterbear.com/Wicca/HealingMagic.html), which in the full Latin reads, "Longinus miles lancea ponxit Dominum et nestitit songuis et recessit dolor," which I'm not going to butcher by attempting a translation._
> 
> The second spell is in Old English, and is taken from The Leechbook of Bald, Book III _(c. 950 CE), as translated by Stephen Pollington in_ Leechcraft: Early English Charms, Plantlore and Healing _(Anglo-Saxon Books, 2000, ISBN: 978-1898281238, p. 404-405). I took a few liberties in copying over both the original and the translation, changing the pronoun originally written in OE as “the” to the more familiar “thee” spelling, as well as choosing “and” to replace the single-character conjunction shorthand used in the original text. Finally, I added a definite article, “the,” before “Earth” for improved aesthetic flow. These changes, are, to the best of my understanding, at least somewhat appropriate. However, I'm not an expert, so if I've made any egregious errors,_ mea culpa _. ;)_


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